She had calmed down—barely.
Her hands still trembled when she pulled the bottle from beneath the kitchen counter. It was dark glass, old. Heavy.
Hard liquor.
Callum blinked. "Where the hell did you get that?"
Lara wiped the sleeve of her hoodie over her damp cheeks, managing a wry smile. "My mom. She left it here. Figured I'd save it for a breakdown."
He stared at the label. Something imported. Strong. Probably worth more than his week's groceries.
"Great," he muttered. "So we're drinking the inheritance."
He poured a generous amount into the first glass he could find—an old tumbler with a crack near the rim—and downed it in one go. His hands were still shaking.
They sat on the floor, surrounded by scattered photos and silence. The liquor burned like acid down his throat, but it steadied him. At least a little.
The pictures hadn't disappeared. But the panic had thinned, stretched into something quieter.
Almost thoughtful.
Lara dragged a blanket around her shoulders and nudged one of the photos with her foot. "They look... professional. Not like phone shots. Not sneaky. Like someone planned them. Framed them."
Callum nodded, jaw tight. "They're not just watching. They're composing."
"Which means," she said slowly, "the target isn't random."
"You think it's you?" he asked.
She shrugged, sniffling quietly. "They sent me the envelope. Most of the pictures are me. Or us. But I don't have anyone close enough to do this."
He glanced at her. "Who would want you in this mess?"
Lara gave a dry laugh. "Who wouldn't? I don't have friends at school. I'm rich. People think I buy my way through everything. Some think I'm just a spoiled brat who flirts with teachers for attention."
Callum flinched at that.
She caught it. Of course she did.
But then she turned to him, more serious. "Are you sure the target's me? What if it's you?"
He didn't answer.
Not right away.
His mind was racing, turning over every name he could think of—students, faculty, past relationships, old grudges—but there was nothing. Nothing that explained this. No one he could think of who hated him enough to orchestrate something so precise, so intimate.
Finally, he muttered, "Maybe... you should call your parents. Just in case."
Lara looked at him, dry and unimpressed. "Really? You want me to call my parents about pictures of me and my teacher kissing?"
Callum groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
The weight of it all came crashing down again.
Shit.
And now, he was in her apartment. Alone. With her. At night.
His eyes darted to the window.
If someone had taken pictures of them in the classroom… who was to say they hadn't taken one of him standing at her door tonight? Or coming in? Or—God—forgive him—drinking with her?
His stomach turned. He went and closed all the curtains.
If this leaked—
His job would be gone. His reputation. His future.
His parents...
His pulse quickened, panic rising in his throat.
There would be whispers. Headlines. Rumors that wouldn't die. All it would take was one photo, one accusation, and everything he'd built would unravel.
And worse, somewhere deep inside—he knew he wouldn't even be able to say it was all untrue.
"I need to get out of here," he muttered, walking too quickly.
Lara understood instantly. Her face tightened with panic as she stood too, blanket falling from her shoulders. "You can't. You can't leave me here alone after knowing someone is spying on me."
He hesitated, halfway to the door, breath coming too fast. "Lara... I—"
His body shivered despite the liquor. The thought of being caught here, of someone already having a photo of him outside her door, clawed up his throat like smoke. He couldn't stop imagining the fallout. His job. His name. His family.
She stepped forward and grabbed his hand—gently.
He should've pulled away.
But instead, he did the opposite.
Against every alarm in his brain, against logic, rules, and his own fear—Callum pulled her close.
Held her.
Not tightly. Not possessively.
But because she was trembling too.
And right now, they were two people trapped in something neither of them could name, trying to survive the storm brewing just outside the door.
After a while, the silence settled. Not peace—never that—but a stillness. Just enough for him to catch his breath again.
He wasn't sure what made him say it. Maybe the quiet was growing too heavy. Maybe it was her shaky breathing or the way she kept clutching the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor. Or maybe it was just that he needed a break from the spiral—the questions, the photos, the invisible eyes watching them.
"Have you eaten?" he asked suddenly, voice rough.
Lara blinked. Then shook her head. "No."
Callum exhaled. He needed something—anything—to do that wasn't drowning in dread. He rose stiffly and walked toward her kitchen.
It was smaller than he'd expected. Modern, minimalist. Everything in clean lines and brushed metal, pale wood cabinets with black handles, a slate-colored countertop that gleamed under the soft overhead light. A few scattered post-it notes clung to the fridge with silly doodles and barely legible reminders. A glass bowl on the counter held a single orange and three protein bars. No dishes in the sink.
The space felt unlived-in, curated more than cooked in. Like a place you crash, not dwell.
He opened the fridge. Empty, save for almond milk, bottled water, and what looked like overpriced yogurt.
"I don't really cook," she offered from behind him.
"Yeah, I noticed," he said dryly.
But he found a carton of eggs and some bread in the freezer. Good enough.
He toasted slices on a pan and scrambled two eggs, plating them on mismatched ceramic dishes. He brought them over and sat beside her on the floor again, the scent of butter and salt rising between them.
"Eat," he said simply.
Lara looked down at the plate like it was some kind of offering.
And for a moment, maybe it was.